


Dwarfling Love

by PericulaLudus



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Baby Durins, Baby Dwarves, Durin Family, Dwalin Is A Softie, Dwarven Traditions, Family Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Funeral, Fíli and Kíli are adorable, Gen, Jóli - Freeform, Maybe not so fluffy any more, Nori is a Little Shit, POV Nori (Tolkien), Thorin Feels, Uncle Thorin, What Have I Done, Young Fíli and Kíli, Young Kíli, oh no
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-12
Updated: 2015-09-13
Packaged: 2018-03-22 14:14:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3731893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PericulaLudus/pseuds/PericulaLudus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Life is not always easy for the exiled folk of Durin. Occasionally, there are days that are even more difficult than usual for the leaders of their people. Fortunately, two little dwarflings know just how to comfort their family members. Fluffy little one shots about young Fíli and Kíli.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Not Just Killer Hands

"Go home, wait for me at my place," Thorin said, his hand clutching Dwalin's shoulder. "I'll be there as soon as I..."

His voice trailed off. Dwalin nodded. Thorin had to... take care of things here. He turned and carefully deposited the heavy axe on the edge of the raised platform.

"And Dwalin... thank you," Thorin said.

Of course. He would do anything for him, for his friend, for his king. Even this. As often as necessary. They gave him a wide berth as he moved through the crowd of curious onlookers. They had had their entertainment for the day, though all of them looked dour. There had been no argument from anyone, the dwarf had been caught red-handed, the crime clear, the punishment just. And yet... it gave Dwalin no joy to carry out these sentences.

With a sigh he sat down at the kitchen table in the small house that Thorin shared with Dís and his nephews. Soon Thorin would come and pour him a stiff drink and talk of justice and honour and loyalty. It was all true, but still... it was not what Dwalin had been trained to do. He maimed and killed on the battlefield, had done so for lesser reasons, and he was good at it and proud of his skill. He had never felt remorse for any of his actions in a fight. This was different. He hated this and these deeds weighed heavy on his conscience. He only did this because he knew it would weigh even more heavily on Thorin's conscience.

He buried his face in his hands. He could still see the dwarf in front of him when he closed his eyes. He had forfeit his own life, his crimes had killed him, Dwalin kept telling himself, but an evil voice in the back of his head insisted that it had been _his_ arms that had wielded the weapon, _his_ axe that had cut his neck, _his_ hands that had ended it all. _His killer hands._ It was such a waste of a life.

Tears were in his eyes, then trickling down his cheeks and he did not brush them away. He cried in moments such as these and there was nothing wrong about it. He was not ashamed of his tears, and nobody had ever dared to mention them. Probably because he threatened to cut the head off anyone who did.

The door flew open with a crash, but it was not Thorin's heavy steps that Dwalin heard, but rather the patter of four small feet .

"Remember to take your boots off, boys! I'll just be a moment."

"Yes, mummy!"

A brief ruckus ensued during which Dwalin tried in vain to gather himself, then the two dwarflings sprinted around the corner in their stocking feet.

"Good afternoon, Dwalin!" Fíli said in his bright voice and grinned a gap-toothed smile up at him. Dwalin just waved his hand at him, still trying to school his features and to stem the flow of tears. He squeezed his eyes shut.

Somebody was tugging at his bootlaces. He glanced down and looked straight into Kíli's big brown eyes.

"Wa sad?" the little one asked.

Dwalin shook his head and smiled.

"I'm fine, laddie," he said, ruffling the boy's hair.

Next thing he knew, Fíli was climbing up into his lap. Somewhat perplexed, Dwalin just let him. The lad settled himself on one of Dwalin's thighs, straddling him like he was a pony, then spread his arms as wide as he could and hugged Dwalin fiercely. Or tried to at least. Even with as much stretching as he could possibly manage, he only reached around half of Dwalin's chest. Still... the gesture was much-appreciated. Fíli snuggled against him, his eyes closed. Dwalin let his chin drop down onto the blond curls, breathing in the sweet scent of the young boy and putting a gentle hand between the lad's shoulder blades. _Not just killer hands._

He looked down again and smiled when he saw Kíli now fiercely hugging his boot, as this was the only part of Dwalin he could possibly reach, being rather short for his age. When their eyes met, the little dwarfling groused a bit and stretched out his arms, too small to even reach up high enough to climb onto Dwalin's lap. With a smile, Dwalin lifted him up, and settled him onto his other leg. Kíli immediately stopped fretting and contentedly snuggled against his body.

With two precious dwarflings squeezing themselves against him, Dwalin really could not be sad any more. He was this as well, he was a beloved elder cousin, one that these children trusted and cared for. He was somebody who got and deserved their hugs. He was not just a henchman.


	2. Welcome Home

They were almost there; another hour’s ride and they would finally reach their town again. The ponies felt it, knew there were warm stables and a good helping of fresh hay to be had not too far away, and perked up a little.

Thorin looked back at his men and could tell that they knew it too. They were so close now, so close to their homes, their families, to food and drink and comfortable beds. Their eyes were hard, dark circles underneath them, but when he looked at each of them in turn there was also hope, relief, and in some cases there was even a little smile. He nodded his head in what he hoped was an encouraging manner, then clicked his tongue at his pony. For the first time in many days he increased their speed a little. His men followed suit.

All seven of them. Only seven.

They came up to a bend in the road, the last one before the guard at the gate could see them. Thorin roughly yanked at the sling he had tied around his neck until it came loose. He pushed the crumpled piece of fabric deep into his pocket and carefully flexed his fingers. His arm was stiff and the movement pained him.

A horn heralded their arrival. The heavy gates were pushed open and the guards stood at attention as their leader and his party returned after so many weeks. Thorin gave them a court nod, but did not stop to talk to them, never even slowed his pony. The market square was their goal and they would not stop riding until they reached it.

By the time they did, word of their return had obviously spread around the town and people started to gather, staring, talking, pointing. Thorin dismounted in the centre of the square, cradling his left arm against his chest. Somebody took the reins of his pony. He looked around the crowd. So many eyes were on him, so many of his people waiting for him to speak, to explain. Finally, he saw her step from a narrow close. Dís, his sister. Their eyes met and she smiled. It never reached her eyes. Behind Dís came her sons. Fíli was explaining something to his brother, gesticulating broadly, fully absorbed by whatever subject it was he tried to bring across. Kíli was skipping along, not paying much attention to his brother’s elaborations, eyes darting around the crowded square.

Thorin could tell the exact moment when Kíli spotted him. His eyes widened and a broad grin split his little round face. He jumped up in the air with a high-pitched squeal and then he was running as fast as his short legs would carry him. He ran straight for his uncle and the crowd parted in front of him. A few feet in front of Thorin, Kíli just jumped, launching himself into the air without a care in the world. He knew that his uncle would catch him, and of course he did, of course Thorin was there to catch his little sunshine.

The entire world seemed to consist of the small dwarfling in his arms, the sweet child that nestled its head against his shoulder and sighed contentedly. Kíli’s arms were wrapped around his neck, clinging to Thorin tightly. He even brought up his legs to anchor himself to his uncle even more securely. His youngest nephew was attached to him as closely as any part of his own body. Thorin lowered his head to the dark curls, breathing deeply, taking in the little boy’s sweet scent. So sweet, so innocent, so untouched by the pains and challenges of the world beyond their walls.

Kíli looked up at him, still grinning from ear to ear. Pure joy shone in his eyes. Three months were like an age to one so small. He snuggled up to Thorin again, nestling his head in the crook of his neck. One of his braids, messy and crooked as usual, tickled Thorin’s collarbone.

He kept Kíli balanced on his right arm, resting his left hand on the lad’s back. He could feel every breath as it entered and left the tiny body. He let his thumb rub gentle circles on the woollen tunic. Kíli was so small that Thorin’s fingers stretched almost all the way across his shoulders.

Kíli started to chat animatedly and Thorin put him down on the ground, mussing the dark hair once the boy was on his feet again. Then his attention turned to his older sister-son.

Fíli stood rooted to the spot, his eyes wide and mouth agape. There was none of Kíli’s unbridled joy on his face. His hands were balled to fists at his sides. He stared at his uncle and when their eyes finally met, Thorin could see him gulp back tears.

Thorin opened his arms wide and knelt down, not heeding the rough stone beneath him. He wanted to be as close to his nephew as possible. Fíli was biting his lower lip as he took a hesitant step forward, then another. Thorin could see him take a deep breath and then Fíli too was running as fast as he could. The blond boy crashed into his shoulder and Thorin embraced him fiercely. For a moment Fíli just leaned limply against him, then he snaked his arms around his uncles neck and buried his face in the fur of his coat.

Fíli was shaking, and Thorin could tell by the shuddering breaths that he was crying. He held him even more tightly, squeezing the lad against his own broad chest. After a little while, Fíli pushed away from him slightly, looking into his uncle’s face as if he wanted to memorise every line around his eyes and every hair of his beard. Then another sob shook his thin frame and he dove head first into the fur again.

Once he had quietened a little, Thorin shifted his weight slightly and settled his nephew onto his thigh. Fíli looked at him again and once more his eyes filled with tears and his mouth opened in a silent wail. Thorin tangled his fingers in the blond hair, pushing the small head against his shoulder, kissing him again and again, murmuring gentle words of comfort, but mainly just being there, hoping that his presence might calm the lad.

With a last deep sigh, Fíli wriggled out of his embrace and slid off his uncle’s knee to stand in front of him. With Thorin crouching on the ground, they were about the same height. Fíli grabbed Thorin’s shoulders and leaned forwards slightly, touching foreheads with him.

“Welcome home,” he said.


	3. A Good Dwarf

“Just a petty thief.”

Nori bristled at that description of himself. Petty thief. He’d show them! Petty theft, ha! Just because he didn’t work here very often didn’t mean he was to be downgraded to a petty thief. Grand, grand sounded much better and they’d find out just what he was capable of soon enough. They’d respect him and they’d fear him and nobody would call him a petty thief any more!

The keys jangled and the heavy door scraped open. Nori launched into a tirade of swearwords that would have made his brother’s ears burn.

“Come to gloat you bastard son of a cave troll?” he asked and suddenly found himself dancing out of reach of the heavy stick the guard had just poked at him through the metal bars.

“Ah, your parentage shows! Slow enough to be a troll!” he gloated.

“Watch your tongue,” the guard growled. “You’re in the presence of your king.”

“I have no king!” Nori spat before he had fully processed the words. Then he caught a glimpse of a second Dwarf in the dimly-lit room, a tall, dark-haired one. Of course! Just his luck that the accursed king himself would decide to take a gander at the prisoners while he was in here. Thorin looked him up and down appraisingly.

“What?” Nori asked. “Come to take me to your bed or to finally free me from the filthy grasp of your little toy soldiers?”

He wondered idly if there might be a way to combine both. Thorin was handsome enough and didn’t have a reputation for cruelty. He’d done worse in exchange for his freedom. Too bad that Thorin also had a reputation as a bit of a prude. He was obviously oblivious of Nori’s thoughts as his voice remained calm.

“Come on business that does not concern you.” Ah, petty thief, eh? The big king didn’t think him worthy of his personal attention. Big king, pah.

“Why are you in here?” Thorin asked imperiously.

“I was wondering the same thing,” Nori replied, raising his eyebrows, trying on an innocent smile that probably looked more like a predatory grin. “I was just walking down the road when I was assaulted by your brutes!”

“He was arrested for stealing three loaves of bread from the bakery,” the guard supplied and Thorin sighed. Really, it wasn’t such a big deal; fat Gullý had bread aplenty. Just because the old crow had made such a fuss was he in jail now.

“That is against our laws,” another voice piped up. Nori looked around and noticed for the first time that a child, nay two children, had entered the corridor alongside Thorin. The one who had spoken was blond and looked like he was about thirty, the other was younger still, dark-haired and munching on an apple.

“Why did you steal the bread?” the older boy asked.

“Because I was starving,” Nori answered, deciding to give the kid a bit of the truth.

“Some people do not care for laws and personal property when it comes to their own gain,” Thorin explained to the boys, obviously disinterested in Nori’s case. The older one nodded eagerly, while the little one looked at Nori curiously, taking another bite from his apple.

“Some people do not care for the wellbeing of their subjects. People are going hungry while you lord over us! I’ll feed them since you don’t!”

He realised immediately that he had made a mistake.

“Who did you feed?” Thorin asked sharply. Oh no, no, no, no way he was giving away his brothers so easily. Ori was a growing boy and unlike these two brats he had no pantry full of meat and cheese to come home to.

“I fed myself,” Nori said. He could tell that Thorin did not believe him, but was counting on him being unwilling to make a scene in front of the children. And Nori would be long gone before he came back without them.

“What’s your name, thief?”

Nori snarled at him. He might have been stupid enough to get himself caught, but he wasn’t that dense. He wouldn’t give away his brothers. They’d throw them into the cell with him, or they’d be shunned by everyone and Ori would be barred from starting an apprenticeship when the time came and Nori didn’t know which of those options was worse.

“What’s your father’s name?”

Nori snarled again. He would never reveal his family. Over his dead body would Ori lose the chance to lead an honest life. The dead body part could probably be arranged. He’d have to get out of here before they started pressing him for a name. That one guard, the big one who had arrested him, he was sure to be the torturer and he looked vicious. Nori did not fancy getting a taste of his craft.

“Fundin,” he answered. Thorin growled like a dog.

“You are no son of Fundin.”

“Well, I’m no son of Thráin, since I’m not mad as a bat,” Nori shot back. “So take your pick of Dwarves that were wealthy enough to make my mother spread her legs on the road from Dunland.”

Thorin was clutching the iron bars now, shooting Nori a glare that would have made a lesser Dwarf crumble. Oh sure, the precious king was feeling superior just because his mother had never had to barter her honour for food or protection or medicine for a dying son, just because he didn’t have to carry the guilt his mother trading her life for his when she became pregnant with Ori. Somebody so grand and Erebor-born, he would just scoff at any surface born Dwarves.

Thorin turned on his heel and dragged the boys with him. “Come, there are things I wish to show you.” They departed down the corridor and soon Nori could only hear muffled voices.

Nori was left reeling. He had angered the king and was sure to face the consequences if he didn’t get out of here soon. Stupid nobles. Rockbrains, all of them. He had done no damage, had always been careful to not do any damage here, in Thorin’s Halls, where his brothers lives. He hadn’t hurt anybody! He had just sought to feed his brothers a decent meal! Nobles. He spat. They didn’t understand. Their life was all precious metal and gemstones, not buckwheat and potatoes.

“Hey!”

Nori wheeled around at the sound. The dwarfling had come back. The tiny one. He was grinning up at him. Nori just stared at him.

“Are you better now?” the boy asked. He really was a scrap of a dwarfling, even tinier than Ori if that was even possible. Nori wasn’t sure what he was on about.

“Are you feeling better?” the child asked again. “I do that sometimes when I get mad and I just need to shout and be mean and then I feel all better. Ama says it’s naughty to shout, but Uncle Thorin does it too.” He grinned as if that settled the matter. “So are you better?”

“Uh hu,” Nori uttered, really not sure what to make of this boy.

“Great!” the boy said and stuck his arm through the bars without a thought for his safety. Nori was thinking fast... He still had a knife or two that they hadn’t found when they searched him... if he took the boy hostage now Uncle Thorin would probably be very happy to release him... Then he looked at the smiling child in front of him and he couldn’t help but see Ori there. He shook himself. This was not Ori, this was some little noble prick who’d soon grow up to be just as hard and insufferable as his precious Uncle Thorin. The sooner he got rid of him, the better.

And then the boy held out an apple.

“Here! You said you were hungry!”

He just seemed to trust him and it was a bad idea because Nori was not a good Dwarf and no dwarfling should trust him and endanger his life like that. No adult trusted him, even his own brother only trusted him as far as he could throw him. Which to be fair was pretty far, but still, not even Dori trusted him. But this little princeling was holding out an apple to him.

“Take it,” he said. “Fíli doesn’t like apples.”

Fíli. Probably the brother. Nori hadn’t been around much, not since Ori was born, and he certainly hadn’t been paying attention to the names of the Durins’ sprogs. He had been working, working pretty far away most of the time because it wouldn’t do to link himself to Thorin’s Halls and bring shame upon his brothers. He brought money and food to them, and Dori mostly didn’t ask where he had gotten it from because it meant that Ori was well taken care of.

Nori was about to decline, but his stomach rumbled to end all pretence of not being hungry. The dwarfling smirked. Nori took the apple. It was big and red and looked absolutely delicious. Ori would love it. It might be a bit too optimistic to keep it for Ori though, a bit suspicious as well, and he really was incredibly hungry. He took a bite and it tasted every bit as good as it looked.

“Do you not get food in prison?” the boy asked.

“A rat’s arse we get,” Nori said and watched the boy’s eyes widen. “Nah, not really. Just bread.”

And not Gullý’s good bread either, he thought, but didn’t say. The boy seemed concerned enough as it was.

“But that’s not enough,” he said. “You need to have some meat and you need to eat your greens as well.”

Nori almost laughed out loud. Meat and greens. What a lovely world this rich boy must be living in.

“Why don’t they feed you properly?”

“What’s it to you?” Nori scoffed.

“I’m here to learn,” the boy said. “Uncle Thorin wants us to learn about our laws and all that. He’s explaining the different crimes to Fíli now, but I think that’s boring because that’s just words on a page. So why don’t you get proper food?”

Ah, learning, right. Well, he could give that boy a proper education. He could tell him all about what life looked like for those who weren’t lucky enough to be part of a perfect little royal family. He could tell him so much about the cruelty of the world. But then he looked down and saw that infectious grin and he just couldn’t. Whatever he would grow into later, for now the boy was innocent and genuinely curious. He wasn’t so different from Ori.

“Because they do not want to waste good food on bad Dwarves,” he said.

“Are you a bad Dwarf?”

“Yes,” Nori said and pulled a face. “I’m a very bad Dwarf.”

The boy giggled. “I think you’re funny,” he said. “But why did you do something bad?”

He just asked without any second thoughts. He just talked to Nori like he was a normal Dwarf, like he was asking a cook why he put parsley in a soup. Nori couldn’t tell him, couldn’t tell him that whole story of how he had ended up stealing.

“Because sometimes you have to do bad things so even worse things don’t happen,” he said.

The boy was gnawing on his lip for a while, evidently puzzled by Nori’s reply. Then he grinned again, evidently proud that he had figured it out.

“I’ve done that!” he said. “I hit Gimli once because he wanted to put something in Fíli’s tea and that’s a really bad thing to do.”

Nori chuckled.

The dwarfling crossed his arms in front of his chest and drew himself up to his full —and still rather insignificant— height. “Because nobody messes with my brother.”

Nori wanted to laugh, but found he couldn’t. That was how brothers were meant to be. That was in a way how he still was. But he had brought so much shame over his brothers. Shame, but also food and money. Still... Dori wouldn’t defend him like that if he saw him now. Dori would try to usher Ori away quickly before he could be infected with Nori’s evilness. He hardly ever got to play with Ori on his rare visits and he missed that. He missed having a little scrap of a dwarfling to talk to. He missed his brothers.

Suddenly there was a hand on his hand.

“Hey, don’t be sad,” the boy said. Then he tugged on Nori’s hand to get him to come closer to the bars. “I can bring you another apple tomorrow.”

Nori swallowed heavily. It was an empty promise, he knew that, but it was a heartfelt one nonetheless.

The dwarfling sneaked both of his arms through the bars and hugged Nori’s hip. He stuck his head out and nuzzled against Nori’s side for good measure.

“I think you’re a good Dwarf.”


	4. Son of Jóli

Son of Jóli

 

She was walking through fire and the feeling was familiar. Her life had been engulfed in flames before. Back then she had been desperate to survive. Today she was indifferent.

She was swimming through ice and that feeling too was familiar. Her life had known so much cold, whether it was during their winters on the road, or in the clutches of her duties as a royal. Jóli had warmed her.

Now Jóli was cold, was nothing but a shrouded figure carried upon the shoulders of his friends. Dís followed, walking slowly, her shaved face covered by a mourning veil and her gloved hands clasping those of her children. He had given her two boys, the mithril of her heart, the mithril of _their hearts_. Not any longer. It was just Dís now and the world around her had turned to fire and ice. There was a fire burning inside her, consuming her in its wrath, but at the same time there was ice, an ever-lasting winter gripping her heart. Her face did not betray the battle inside; her face remained impassive as the very stone of her soul was torn asunder.

She had lost her keystone and the arch of her life was tumbling down, falling and falling, endlessly falling into an abyss darker and deadlier even than the ire of the dragon. There was nobody left to catch her now. She had been here before, so many times, and yet the feeling was new and alien to her. She had never attended a funeral for one of her family before, even though she had lost them all. There had never been a body brought back to her to bury, not when her mother had been taken from her so early, so violently; not when her grandfather had been slain and fed to the crows; not when her father had disappeared. And Frerin, oh Frerin! Frerin had been lost far away, in a battle so dreadful that the survivors still breathed nary a word of it. A battle so bloody that they had been unable to even bury their dead. Frerin had been burned. At least Jóli would not be a burned Dwarf. She tried to cling to that shred, that slight sliver of positivity.

She clutched her sons’ hands. They were real, they were here, they were alive and breathing beside her. They were fine lads, Fíli with his father’s golden hair and Kíli with his infectious joy. They were fine lads, and they were the only reason that remained for her to stay alive. Fine lads that would not grow up as orphans. She had to hold onto that determination, had to make sure the fire and ice did not consume her. She had to live for her sons, bare-cheeked and broken though she was.

They stood in front of the tomb now, the cavern lit by many flickering torches. The whole town was here, their friends, their co-workers, their neighbours and cousins. Kíli tried to withdraw his hand from her grasp, obviously growing bored with the solemn occasion and intimidated by the many eyes that rested upon them. Dís rested her hand upon his curls, his braids crooked and loose as usual. He looked up at her, with those wide, expressive eyes that were so much like his father’s that for a moment her breath was taken away. She leaned down and whispered a few words into the fidgety boy’s ear.

She stood straight, as if she was naught but a statue hewn from the stone, cold and unmoving, the ice winning the battle against the fire in that moment, but her boys bowed low when their father was laid to rest in the slate-grey tomb. Her brave little boys, who barely had time to tell their father hello, now said goodbye as their people watched and wept. At her urging, the children — dressed in their best clothes, far too cute to be attending a funeral — gave a final salute to their dead adad.

They sat on low stone benches, cowering in front of Mahal’s might. At some point an antsy Kíli was spirited away to a quiet room by her friend Rúna; Rúna who had buried her husband just a few years ago and had since been raising fatherless children of her own. Dís felt naked and exposed. As a daughter of Durin she had always been a public figure, but less so in recent years as the wife of a lowly workman. In many ways she could ignore her heritage and be just one more ordinary dwarrowdam in a growing town full of hard-working people, but there were small signs of her superior lineage. Her sons had always been known as the sons of Dís, not Jóli, so there would not even be that small reminder now.

The ceremony washed over Dís like the mighty waves of a great river. Chants echoed in the cavern, multiplying and growing stronger, reaching out to Mahal, maybe to be heard all the way to the Halls of Mandos. Thorin spoke of life everlasting, of joining Mahal in the other realm; he spoke of respect for the deceased and of comfort for the living. His words were hollow like the tomb in front of them. Dís sat still throughout it all, naught but a marble figure in the mass of mourners.

“May your spirit, dear Jóli, join Mahal swiftly when he calls you by your name, when he calls you...” Thorin proclaimed, his deep voice rising above the murmured prayers and stifled sobs of the assembled Dwarves. Dís had learned to be strong, to meet the death and despair thrown at her so frequently with the sharpness and force of an iron-forged sword. But she crumbled when Thorin spoke Jóli’s inner name, his true name that long ago he had whispered to her on their wedding night. It was a secret so deep, so personal, and it should not have been revealed for many long years to come. All stoicism forgotten, Dís surrendered to her feelings. She made no effort to wipe away her tears, nor to hide the shaking of her shoulders.

A small, warm hand wormed its way into hers, gave her something to hold on to, something to anchor her in this world when all she really wanted was to return to the stone, to be with her beloved husband once more. Fíli’s other hand came to rest on top of hers as he gently stroked her fingers. His eyes remained fixed upon Thorin who stood in front of the tomb, intent to commit every moment of the ceremony to memory. Tears were streaming down her young son’s cheeks, but he made no noise, his pain so overwhelming that it found no sound.

“Umhûdizu tadaizd ku’ adrûthîzd, Mahal, murukhîzd udu charach bakhuzizu ra udnîn izd ana ghiluz nur,” Thorin intoned and the whole congregation repeated the Words of Mourning after him, Fíli’s voice rising above all others, high and clear as a bell. _Bless those who mourn, Creator, shield them from the pain with Your hammer and guide them to a new day._

Fíli was too small for her to lean upon him when Thorin beckoned them forwards, but nonetheless she felt like he was supporting her, that his mere presence was banishing a little of the heavy weight that had settled upon her shoulders. Together they stood in front of the tomb, still unadorned while the mourning period lasted. Jóli’s friends would see to it that he received an inscription worthy of his memory eventually. If anything could ever be worthy of Jóli’s memory. Nothing hewn of rock or cast in metal could ever hope to come close to the love and warmth he had shared not just with her, but with all those whose lives he had touched. Nothing could ever replace Jóli.

It was clearly Fíli holding her hand now and not the other way around as they knelt next to the tomb. They touched their foreheads against it, sharing that tender gesture with their beloved husband and father for one last time. There was little tenderness in the cold and unyielding stone. This was not Jóli any more, this was just the mountain, remote and aloof as ever, indifferent to the plight of her children.

“Umhûdizu tadaizd ku’ adrûthîzd, Mahal , murukhîzd udu charach bakhuzizu ra udnîn izd ana ghiluz nur,” the words echoed behind them again, repeated again and again, seven times seven times repeated in mourning for a dear friend and neighbour. Dís did not feel blessed by Mahal, felt crushed by His hammer rather than shielded, and she certainly could not see the new day He was supposed to be guiding her to.

Fíli’s hand was resting on her spine now, his thin arm stretched across her back. He looked up at her, his blue eyes still brimming with tears, but his glance earnest and mature far beyond his years.

“I’ll shield you, Amad,” he whispered. “I’ll make sure that you never have to cry like this again.”

She drew him against her body then, breathed in his sweet scent and kissed his golden hair, so much like his father’s she could not deny that part of him was still with her. It was a promise he might not be able to keep, but she could not fault his ardour.

They stood again as they watched Thorin put Jóli’s tools and weapons in his tomb. A Dwarf entered the Halls of Mahal with all his treasures. Not that there would be any jewels to be placed on Jóli’s breast. A Dwarf that had died in the mines of the Ered Luin was unlikely to call precious stones or metal his own, even if he had married a daughter of Durin. They had been poor by anyone’s standard, but so rich in love that Dís never regretted it for a minute. He in turn had loved her so much that he never once complained of their sons being called her descendants rather than his. Now there would be little left of that love that transcended the barriers of class except for memories. Jóli’s smell on the pillows would fade and with time his clothes and few possessions would wither and decay, and by the time their boys were old enough to start their apprenticeships, there would be nothing left except for the stone that held their father. It was a poor memorial to one so vibrant and full of joy.

Amidst the funeral chants, Thorin reached into the tomb for one last time before a dozen Dwarves hoisted the heavy lid on top of it. This time he did not deposit anything, but withdrew a small dagger that had accompanied Jóli wherever he went. It was not particularly beautiful, the sheath plain and the metal tarnished in places, but it had been a much-valued tool to his bearer. Thorin sank to his knees in front of Fíli so they were about the same height. He held out the knife to his nephew and waited for him to grasp it.

“May it be a memory to you of your valiant and beloved father,” Thorin said, helping Fíli fasten the dagger to his belt. “May it serve you well in all your future endeavours, Fíli son of Jóli.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry. Yes, these are my cute, fluffy little one-shots. I feel somewhat guilty for having written this.  
> Let me know what you think, please! Funeral customs and Words of Mourning courtesy of The Dwarrow Scholar.


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